Nini Legs In The Air
by Isn'tItAlways
Summary: Yet another fic about the tango that Nini and the Argentinean perform together. This one reveals a bit about Nini's past and her questions of the Underworld... Oneshot. Please read and review. My first fanfiction, so please be nice!


Disclaimer: I own nothing, though I wish I did….

The Argentinean's deep, dark voice rang throughout the hall. It was a voice that caused chills to caress my spine and make my hair stand on end; a voice that made my breathing grow shallow and my heart race. He called out to me to join him, and I flitted down the stairs amidst catcalls and cheers from the men in the audience. I rearranged my features into what I hoped was a calm and carefree face. I laughed and smirked. I didn't want the exotic man with the enticing and dynamic eyes to know how he affected me. I didn't want him to know how much I looked forward to seeing him in the Moulin Rouge each night, though I never once offered my services to him. He was always there, just watching, never speaking to me or any of the girls. He didn't seem interested in love that came with a fee, nor did he seem to be one who satisfied a lust with just any woman who came his way. No, he was different. He was more.

His body touched mine. My blood seemed to grow hot within me. We danced and it seemed that he was the only man in the room. His eyes. His dark eyes that conveyed mystery and depth. I caught myself staring into his chocolate eyes and cursed myself silently. I wasn't free to think like this. This free sort of thinking was reserved for free women, not women of the Moulin Rouge. I set my mind against looking into his expressive face again lest I should find myself lost.

I was such a hypocrite, and I knew. I knew that I constantly found myself chiding the others mercilessly about falling in love with their customers. I knew that Nini-Legs-In-The-Air was sarcastic and harsh at even her best times, and that those characteristics had turned into habits. I knew that those habits were solely a defensive strategy, to keep from becoming to close with anybody or anything. I knew from just living my life that we should never become attached to things or people, because, if you work at the Moulin Rouge as I do, they never stay to console you or offer you sympathy. I knew that when my life was at its very end, I would have nobody to remember or any accomplishments to be proud of. I thought that I had been in love once, very long ago. But it had turned out to be nothing but a cold reminder of the reality of life and the pull of the Moulin Rouge. Nothing ever fazed me again, or so the others thought. From then on I was Nini-Legs-In-The-Air, the bitch with a chilled heart and nothing but contempt for life.

The dark man caressed my neck and shoulders, filling me with a longing so intense and passionate that it made my throat burn. He gripped my wrists so hard that I cried out in surprise and anger, but it had only heightened my sense of longing. He was dangerous. I was then tossed from man to man, feeling the Argentinean's gaze upon my back. His eyes were upon my face. I wished for a minute that I was a free woman, free to pursue him and forget about the fee that came with me. I wished that he would take me into his arms once more, whispering in my ear sweet verses of poetry or seductive hints of what the night would bring. I wanted to whisper back to him, to tell him what I wanted; what he meant to me.

But it was never to be. A whore is not free to love. She won't be until the day she dies. You see, the memories of long nights with strangers never really leave us. They haunt us and storm our dreams. A whore will always be the woman who once wore corsets and skirts and danced for money. As I looked into those wondrous eyes once more, I longed for something a little more than freedom. I wanted to know why a whore's life had to be so predictable and at the same time unpredictable; why the world seems to have forsaken us but the men come pouring in each night; why a tantalizing and beautiful love is within our reach but yet we are forbidden to grasp it and are forced, instead, to gaze at it from afar. As I slid quietly to the floor after the mysterious man with the dark eyes slit my throat, I sought comfort in the blackness of the high ceiling above me. And, for a short time, my mind was cushioned on a feeling of eternal sadness.


End file.
